


unconditional love

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: A Safe Haven [2]
Category: Haven (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bad Parenting, Canon Compliant, Child Abandonment, Childhood Memories, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Memories, Not Beta Read, fic and chapter titles taken from Unconditional Love by Against Me!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 11:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12506240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: He was a gutter spawn. A dumpster baby with a broken beer bottle for a pacifier.





	1. my authentic desperation

Sleeping in construction sites brought about all manner of problems.

It wasn’t safe, for one, and it was seriously fucking cold. Duke spent most of his nights huddled in dark corners, pushed with his knees up against his chest, backpack clutched tightly in fear of thievery. He didn’t sleep much. Pain crept up his neck, shoulders, and back, tugging tight whenever he was shoved or kicked. The other homeless kids weren’t as much of a problem as the homeless _adults_. Grown ass men and women, alchos and addicts, with wild eyes and an axe to grind. Maybe he reminded them too much of the son they’d lost. Maybe he was just a juicy little temptation, thin limbs and shivering body too good to resist. Whatever. He fought them all off with a rusty serrated knife, and by now he knew his strength.

He was fifteen, and he knew exactly who he was.

He was a gutter spawn. A dumpster baby with a broken beer bottle for a pacifier. The child of a prostitute and an abusive drunk. Bad at school, better at sweet-talking. He knew how to steal, how to charm, and how to manipulate. He knew about morals, knew all about right and wrong, but the truth was that it was better to be bad than be dead. Better to be homeless than be tossed from foster homes to juvenile detention centres, back and forth until he ended up beat to death.

He figured he’d make it as a fisherman, or by transporting stuff for people. He was good at hiding things. What else could he do? Starve on minimum wage, greeting herds of human cattle as they shuffled through the checkout at Walmart? Peddle meth to other schoolkids for gangsters? Work for bloated, scotch-guzzling frat boys of the American aristocracy, shovelling shit while they earned a billion bucks an hour? No fucking way. He was gonna make his _own_ way in the world. He was gonna be his _own_ man. The system had fucked him good and proper, so now he was going to fuck the system. Rap music and static-distorted punk bands filled him with hope, propelling him through many a hopeless day as he crouched beside a cracked radio, listening to lyrics that seemed to be written for him. His dreams felt fragile, held together with tape and desperation, but he was sure he could make it. He _would_ make it.

He had no schedule, no bedtime, no life. No rules except _survive._ And he blended in so well at school, nobody could even tell, because he was the popular kid; he was liked and admired, and making it just fine on his own.

Or.

That was what he told himself.

 

***

 

The first time he ever drunk alcohol was at the age of sixteen.

In retrospect, it was amazing he’d made it this long without getting a taste, but hey. At least this was _one_ normal thing about him.

It was a party. Some girl in his school was turning twenty-one, and he was cool enough that he got invited, despite being so young. He caught a ride up to her house on the outskirts of town, buried in woodland and surrounded by cows, a bonfire blazing brightly out front. Clutching a case of beer he’d stolen from a local bar, he stood in the dust, staring with wide-eyed fascination at the sight before him. A smile, gleeful and heartbreakingly innocent, broke out over his face. Oh, yeah. These were the good times. He was finally going to make some older friends, and maybe some of them would give him a house to stay at. They’d be cool, feed him up for a while, maybe even set him up with a job.

Someone yelled out to him. _“Hey, kid!”_

He wandered forward, excited and euphoric in ways only an orphan could be.

 

 


	2. the vultures will pick your bones dry

“Hey, Deputy. We got a party going on, some underage kids probably there. Take a look, would you? Kick them out, get them home.”

Garland sighed into his coffee, resentfully glaring down at his watch. He wanted to argue the point, maybe say, _I’ve got a kid waitin’ for me at home, you uncaring prick,_ but knew that it wasn’t worth the fight. His Chief was a good bloke, and he didn’t ask for much more than was expected. Supressing yet another loaded sigh, Garland heaved himself up out of his chair, taking his jacket with him.

 

***

 

The drive to the party wasn’t all that long, but it felt horrendously unnecessary. Garland just couldn’t understand it. He resentfully watched trees streaming past in the darkness, jaw set, fingers tight around the steering wheel. He hadn’t seen the need for responsibility when he was younger, not until he’d had a kid of his own. He just didn’t understand why parents let their kids go out like this, unsupervised and unprotected; christ, Nathan was only a little boy, but Garland was so paranoid about what might happen to him. His own parents hadn’t been the best at keeping tabs on him– or just plain _giving a shit–_ and he wanted to do better for Nathan. Wanted to keep him safe, especially given how twisted he knew the world was.

He pulled up into the house’s driveway, the bonfire out front dying down, smouldering into nothingness. A couple of kids were gathered near it, but started to scatter when he arrived. Quickly, he got out of the car.

“No use runnin’, a’ight.” He spoke slowly and carefully, letting them know he wasn’t their enemy. “Just wanna make sure you’re all of age.”

The kids sat down again, looking guilty. Garland cast his eyes around the circle, and he felt confusion creep into his gut, settling heavy in the pit of his stomach. Haven was a small town, and he knew all of these youngsters. They were all twenty-one, or older. Which didn’t explain why they looked so goddamn worried.

“…What’s goin’ on?”

They looked around at each other, all unwilling to speak. Some boys nudged a young woman, who Garland gleaned was the birthday girl.

“This your party?”

She nodded.

“Name?”

“Joan Wilkins,” she replied, clearing her throat nervously, “sir.”

“Your parents home?”

“No.”

He nodded, tense now, the tentativeness of her tone setting him on edge. “You wanna tell me why you’re so scared, Joan?”

She shifted uncomfortably on the log where she sat, her face lit by the bonfire, leaving no illusions as to the extent of her apprehension. She was drunk. And looking very guilty.

“Well, we,” she gestured vaguely around her, “We thought it’d be funny to…”

“To _what?”_

“To invite some kid.” Her voice rose, as if she were trying to defend herself. “We just wanted to have few laughs, you know? He’s always hanging around us, trying to act cool, so we thought… he could come too. He’s young, but-”

“How young?”

“I dunno, like… sixteen? Maybe? I think.”

The world seemed to slow to a stop, Garland’s eyes widening. His heart gave a heavy, suffocating _thud_ in his chest, and the panic he began to feel was that of a father. He knew who the child was without needing to ask. There was only one kid in town who was so damn neglected he’d end up at a party like this at that age.

“Duke Crocker?”

She nodded sheepishly. Garland wanted to hit something. He put a palm over his mouth, willing himself to calm down, and then lowered his hand in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

“He’s not here. Where is he?”

“I… I don’t-”

“Where did he go?”

She blinked a couple of times, tears gathering in her eyes from being so directly interrogated. Silence had fallen around the circle, the only sound now coming from the faintly crackling fire.

“Look, it was- It was just some fun-”

“You inviting an underage _child_ to a party like this is not _fun._ Now,” he stepped towards her, “tell me where he is!”

 

 


	3. somewhere lost in the ephemeral

Duke was _hurting._

Every streetlight he passed was a giant, screaming, inconsiderate fucking ball of white energy, burning a path straight to the deepest parts of his brain. The alcohol had felt so good, so goddamn good, but now it felt _bad._ The warmth of it had turned to panic, and his stomach sloshed and jolted with every step he took. He couldn’t walk straight. His senses were combusting and his fingertips were numb, the world swirling and doubling wherever he looked. He was cross-eyed, just trying to see, and the weight of his hair on his neck felt like a millstone, unbalancing and toppling him as he tried to move forward. He was sinking. Walking, but sinking. Somewhere deep down at the bottom of the ocean, being crushed by an impossible weight.

He fell to the ground.

Vomited.

Hopelessness bubbled up inside him, taking shape in the form of a sob that wailed from his lips, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t tell whether he was crying from the seizing of his stomach, or the sadness of failure. The party was supposed to be _fun._ He was supposed to meet some _friends._ It was all supposed to work out okay.

He’d never been drunk before, but he could tell this wasn’t right. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like.

Something was _wrong._

His senses were simultaneously dulled and sharpened, so it took him a moment to hear the approaching crunch of wheels on gravel, the slam of a car door, the rapid onset of footsteps.

Hands on him.

He screamed.

There was a noise, a low rumbling beside his head, and he kicked, flailed, and punched at it. The motions caused him to vomit again, and it was only as he hung, held up by a pair of strong hands, that he realised the sound was a voice. Distant and blurred.

_“It’s okay, Duke. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. My name’s Garland, do you remember me? I’m Nathan’s dad. Gonna take you somewhere safe now, okay?”_

“Not-” Duke tried to find the words, struggling to speak around the acidic taste of bile, breaths hitching unsteadily as he trembled, “Not home, n-”

 _“I know, kiddo,”_ the voice told him, _“I know. I won’t take you back to your mom and dad.”_

Sobbing now, Duke clung onto what was closest to him. The smooth, ironed fabric of a uniform, the solid reassurance of a welcoming hug. He felt a hand settling against the back of his head, holding him close, another arm lifting his legs, and then he was being carried to a car.

For the first time in his tormented childhood, he felt safe.

 

 


	4. welcome to the future

Years later, Duke Crocker lay in bed, watching rain drip down glass. Condensation gathered on the inside of the pane, a blooming warmth to match the one that engulfed his whole body. The dinner he’d just eaten filled his belly, had him sated and content, happy with everything and anything. Soft moonlight filtered through the curtains, mingling with the warm glow of Nathan’s bedside lamp, and his childhood seemed like a distant dream.

“Hey,” Nathan began quietly, sliding into bed beside him, “everything okay?”

Duke smiled. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

 

 


End file.
